Winter Shadow
by Basalit-an
Summary: The Warden has died, and Alistair attends her funeral. He reflects on their past, and realizes he made the wrong decision.


The dead of winter had gripped Ferelden in a frozen clutch, mercilessly beating the land with hailstorms and blizzards unseen in decades. Amaranthine and the whole arling had been ravaged by the harsh weather, compounded by a plague that had swept through the city herself, sprawling out into the countryside and, indeed, Vigil's Keep. Though now in retreat, the disease had done its damage and had taken with it countless lives.

Including the most precious.

She lay on the alter constructed of wood in the middle of the keep's courtyard, still and unmoving. Though she was clad in her armor and adorned with what few flowers could be found at this time, she looked limp, thin, her body devastated by illness. Her face looked skeletal, with gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes. She didn't look at all like the powerful Warden who had slayed an Archdemon and lived.

The Warden-Commander was dead. Her loss was felt throughout the arling, throughout the country. The ocean of mourners present at and around Vigil's Keep made that obvious. This woman, a young elven mage, had halted a civil war, ended a blight, and brought order to Amaranthine. Even those who did not love her at least respected her.

And now she was gone, only her body left to freeze in Ferelden's icy air.

Alistair couldn't believe it. After everything she had been through—that _they_ had been through, together—she should die by disease. She hadn't even been old enough to hear the Calling, he was sure.

He stood at the back of the sea of people, close to the gate of the Keep. From there, he could hardly see her body atop the unlit pyre, could barely hear the heartfelt words of her closest friends over the sobbing and keening that rose from the crowd. Silent, encased in full armor so as not to be recognized, he let only a few cold tears escape before he fought them back.

Though he felt her loss like a punch in the chest, he had no reason to cry for her.

Her pyre was lit at last, bright against the gray light of the cold day. The flames licked up the wood, surrounding the small body until it was entirely engulfed, and Alistair had to tear his misty gaze away. He'd always known, in his heart, that there was no future, no home for him in Ferelden any longer. Yet an irrational part of him had wondered if he had returned to this country, returned to _her_...

But now he had lost her.

It felt worse than the betrayal.

Alistair knew that Logain Mac Tir was there. In fact, in a sick, ironic twist, it had been that very man who had lit the pyre. He was a traitor, a true villain, willing to drive his country into smoulders over paranoia. He had killed the King, killed Duncan. That man should have been dead at the end of Alistair's blade.

Instead, he was a Grey Warden, had a title, land, all because she had decided to show that monster, mercy he did not deserve. Meanwhile Alistair had cast off, wandered, losing his title, his name, his entire self.

A weak surge of anger bubbled in his chest along with a black hatred that had settled there like a cancer long ago. It had been eating him from the inside for years, taking away all he was until he simply a silent suit of armor standing at the back of a funeral for a woman he couldn't even remember loving.

A breeze picked up, causing Alistair to shiver in his armor. The smoke swirled in a black cloud as it rose into the gray sky, moving in a solemn dance in the wind.

A memory rose to the surface, of sleeping on frigid ground, warmed by another body. A small, strong, lithe body. Skin touching skin, flushed and damp with sweat. Her eyes, so alive and alight with passion, as she spoke words, promises of never leaving his side, of always being together regardless of the obstacles in their way.

And him, promising the very thing.

He had broken that promise. Blinded by—by what? Pride? Foolishness? She'd simply acted as it was in her nature to do: to show compassion, mercy, even to the evilest of men. She'd done it countless times in their travels together, whether she faced man, demon or beast. The very qualities about her that made him love her had ultimately driven him from her.

He had been wrong.

Why could he only admit that now that she was gone, now that he could never apologize?

He felt awash in regret and grief, and it felt hard to breathe in the bitter cold air. All he wanted to was lay with her once more. He wanted to feel her hand on his face once more, as she had when she had awkwardly confessed her feelings to him. He wanted to beg her forgiveness. He wanted to hope for the kindess and compassion she had shown to countless enemies, though he was the least to deserve it.

After a silent eternity, the crowd started to break up, moving like ghosts through the fog. He remained, still like a statue, even as faces from the past moved by. None of them noticed him. He wanted to call to them, to speak the names of Leliana, Wynne, Oghren, even Zevran. He wanted even that small piece of the past, just for a moment.

He made no sound.

Soon he was alone, save for several armored Wardens moving to their stations.

At last he moved. His body felt stiff, detached, cold, as if he might already be dead himself. He walked out of the Keep, his head full of memories from a better time. In front of his eyes, the gray, lifeless land of Amaranthine, blanketed in winter shadows.

His heart heavy, Alistair stepped into these welcoming shadows, and he let the tears fall freely.


End file.
